


Time to Be Brave

by little0bird



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Episode: s03e07 The Bear and the Maiden Fair, Episode: s04e01 Two Swords, Episode: s04e02 The Lion and the Rose, Episode: s04e03 Breaker of Chains, Episode: s04e04 Oathkeeper, Gen, Setting the Stage for Braime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: A series of drabbles that take place between "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and "Oathkeeper."Edit: Decided to include their scenes at Riverrun, the Dragonpit, and Jaime’s “trial” at Winterfell





	1. Candle Bright

Jaime swept his wet hair from his face and held up a pair of brown roughspun trousers.  They looked a bit large, but Brienne wouldn’t mind. He piled it on the counter of the tailor’s shop, then rummaged for a tunic.  He found one made of tightly woven brown wool that looked as if it would do, then turned to a line of pegs on the wall, hand reaching for a plain brown cloak to match, but his eye caught a bit of blue, and he swept the layers of brown, black, and grey aside.  The cloak was the same hue of summer skies. And nearly the same shade of Brienne’s eyes.

Not that he’d noticed.  

He paid the tailor using coin Steelshanks had loaned him, with the promise that Tywin would repay him, then bundled the clothing under his arm.  He strode down the street to the inn where they’d stopped for the night and went to the chamber that had been given to Brienne. He knocked perfunctorily on the door and barged in.  

‘Seven hells!’ Brienne swore.  She hastily sat up and crossed her arms over her chest, water sloshing over the edge of the tub.  ‘Why must you insist on interrupting my baths?’ she barked.

Jaime averted his eyes.  He edged toward the narrow bed and deposited the clothes on it.  ‘I thought these might suit you better than that dress.’

Brienne shifted in the tub, her knees drawn to her chest.  She glanced at the pile of wool and roughspun, expecting to hear a litany of terms and conditions.  When none were forthcoming, she said quietly, ‘I thank you.’

Jaime inclined his head.  ‘My lady.’

‘Ser Jaime.’

Jaime felt the same candle-bright glow of warmth when she called him by his name that he’d felt the first time she’d used it.  


	2. Name Day

It was the sort of day Brienne most enjoyed.  The sun had begun to peek through the clouds and burn off the fog that shrouded the valley.  She could tell were much closer to King’s Landing, because the sun warmed her shoulders as it rose higher into the sky.  Every now and again, she truly missed Tarth and the scent of sun-warmed cypress trees and lavender that drifted into her father’s castle, with the undertone of salt from the Straits of Tarth.

‘When is your name day?’  Jaime’s voice intruded into her reverie of deep blue water and verdant hills, the grass waving in the ever-present breeze from the sea.

‘Why?’  Brienne still found herself wondering what darts Jaime would use with information she provided him about herself, even if she did trust his word that no harm would come to her.

Jaime shrugged.  ‘Why not? After everything we’ve been through, it seems as if it’s something we should know about one another.’  He paused and batted a bee away from his face. ‘Mine is the third day of the eleventh moon,’ he supplied helpfully.

Brienne made an irritable noise under her breath. ‘I dislike my name day,’ she muttered to her horse’s ears. 

‘Why?’  

Brienne’s hand twitched and she clenched it into a fist. ‘My older brother died and was buried on my eighth name day,’ she said tightly, then pressed her lips together. 

‘I’m sorry.’

Brienne’s shoulders jerked in a shrug.  ‘It’s the twenty-second day of the fourth moon,’ she coughed. 

Jaime frowned calculating the date. ‘That’s tomorrow.’

‘Is it?’  Brienne tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice was flat and emotionless.  ‘Doesn’t matter. Haven’t celebrated my name day in years.’

‘How old will you be?’ Jaime asked curiously.  Brienne could have been eighteen or thirty. She had one of those faces where she probably looked thirty when she was eighteen.

‘A gentleman never asks a lady’s age,’ Brienne said stiffly.

‘I’m not a gentleman, and, as you’re so fond of saying, you’re no lady.’  Jaime grinned impudently at her. 

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Still wet behind the ears, then.’  

‘Piss off,’ Brienne muttered grumpily.  

Jaime laughed quietly and kicked his horse into a canter.  

He said not a word to Brienne the next day, but disappeared when they stopped for the night in a small village.  When Brienne emerged from the tiny chamber assigned to her, Jaime waved her to a seat across from him at the long communal table.  A small paper-wrapped parcel sat in the place he’d indicated, the ends twisted closed. ‘A happy name day to you,’ he murmured, as Brienne unwrapped what proved to be a small, slightly squashed honey cake.  ‘If it were King’s Landing, it would be lemon cake,’ Jaime said apologetically.

Brienne blinked rapidly.  The aroma of honey and spices hung heavy between them.  ‘It will do.’ She didn’t smile, but the slight scowl she usually wore softened.  Brienne picked up the knife next to her plate and neatly sliced the cake in half, then placed one half on the edge of Jaime’s plate.  


	3. Inadequate

‘Can you read?’  Jaime stretched out on his bedroll.  ‘One might assume that you can, given that you’re a highborn lady.’  He reclined on his elbows. ‘Status isn’t an indicator of intelligence, though,’ he mused

 

Brienne gave Jaime an incredulous look.  ‘Of course I can read. I can even write and do sums as well,’ she added sarcastically.

 

‘Are you any good at it?’

 

‘I suppose.’  Brienne pulled off a boot and shook out the offending pebble that had annoyed her most of the day.  She yanked the boot back on. ‘Why?’

 

‘Like I said when we started this fool’s errand, we ought to get to know one another.’  Jaime lay back and stared up at the darkening sky. ‘I always struggled with it. The letters… moved…’  He waved his hand in front of his face. ‘My father couldn’t abide the idea that his son might be simple, so he sat with me every bloody day for hours, beating the skill of reading into me.  He did it for months.  I hated him for a very long time.  Never hated Tyrion, come to think of it.  He could read better at five years of age than I could at nine.  That sort of thing came to him as naturally as breathing.  I quite envied him at the time.’ Jaime rubbed his nose and blew out a breath. ‘Enough of my sad tale. Did your father teach you or were you subjected to the insipid instruction of a septa?’

 

Brienne folded herself to her bedroll and wrapped her arms around her knees, tucking her cloak around her body.  ‘Both. I was the despair of the septa. Never managed to learn the womanly arts well enough. She enjoyed mocking me during my lessons,’ she admitted, toying with a blade of grass, deep in her childhood memories of Septa Roselle deriding her clumsy attempts to curtsey properly, which made her even clumsier; or sneering at Brienne’s sewing, her endeavors crumpled with raveling edges.  The septa had inadvertently taught her one thing -- to be wary of people, especially of the clergy of the Seven. Kindly appearances could hide poisonous tongues. She brushed the bits of grass off her hands. ‘My father got tired of watching me fight the squires and mucking it up, so he started teaching me. Said if I was going to swing a damn sword, I should learn to do it well enough to not shame him.’

 

‘You learned well,’ Jaime allowed, thinking of how swiftly she’d dispatched the Stark soldiers that had come upon them while she insisted on burying the three dead tavern wenches.

 

‘I’m certain my father would be gratified to hear it.’

 

‘He offered three hundred gold dragons for your release, you know,’ Jaime commented, his eyes fixed on the first star that had appeared.  

 

Brienne’s brows drew together as she turned her head away and rested her cheek on her knees.  ‘That was a generous sum. More than he ought to have offered,’ she murmured.

 

Jaime moved his head slightly, and studied the stiff set of Brienne’s shoulders and back.  ‘And some might say it wasn’t generous enough.’  

 

Her shoulders drew a fraction of an inch closer to her ears.  ‘Haven’t you had your fill of mocking me?’ she retorted.  

 

Jaime returned his gaze to the stars.  ‘I wasn’t mocking you,’ he stated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this time in Westerosi history, one gold dragon could purchase a horse, so Selwyn's offer of three hundred is hardly insignificant.


	4. Not Interested

Jaime dropped his bedroll next to Brienne’s.  ‘There’s no shame in sleeping close together for warmth,’ he told her.  ‘And the nights are cold, even this far south.’  Brienne unfurled hers and turned her attention to Jaime’s, picking apart the knots on the leather laces, and laid it out next to hers, scowling at him.  ‘Your virtue is safe with me,’ he added.

 

‘Yes, I’m well aware,’ Brienne retorted.  ‘You’re not interested.’  She tamped down a prickle of annoyance and told herself she wasn’t interested, either.  A cold finger of wind snaked its way under the collar of her cloak and she shivered pulling it higher around her neck.  It _was_ cold once the sun set.  And she insisted on sleeping apart from the Bolton men, far from the fire. ‘Fine,’ she muttered, jerking Jaime’s bedroll closer so it nearly touched hers.  Brienne yanked her boots off, then slid into her bedroll and turned her back to Jaime.  

 

Jaime briefly rolled his eyes, then crawled into his bedroll, and shifted until his chest just brushed against her back.  ‘I’m going to put my hand  on your waist,’ he warned, before doing so, then pulling her back, so he was snugly fitted against her.  ‘Sleep well, my lady.’  Brienne merely snorted, and presently Jaime felt her left foot twitch through their bedrolls and the corner of his mouth turned up.  It was how he knew she truly slept as opposed to feigning it.  He exhaled slowly and let himself drift into sleep.

 

Come daybreak, birdsong roused him a little and Jaime's hand cupped around warm flesh, thumb idly brushing over a stiffening nipple.  His hips pressed forward, cock hard.  Jaime could hardly recall the last time he’d been hard.  Before the Battle of Whispering Wood, and that had been two years ago.  He nuzzled the back of the head in front of him, eyes springing open, upon the realization the hair wasn’t bound in a plait, but cropped short.  He rolled to his back, breathing heavily, then eased out of his bedroll and stumbled to the nearby stream, plunging his hand into the frigid waters and splashing it over his face.  

 

Water dripped from his chin onto the roughspun cloak as Jaime stared at Brienne’s pale yellow hair, just visible against the grass.  _I’m not interested_ , he told himself fiercely.  

 

 


	5. Paint the Red Door Black

The inn was crowded, but Steelshanks and Lord Bolton’s gold found space for their group inside.  Brienne perched uneasily on the bench, eyes flicking around the room.  It was full of half-drunken men, getting drunker by the second.  Jaime turned his head to the side, lips near her ear and murmured, ‘As soon as you’ve eaten, I’ll see you to your chamber.  Bolt the door.  Open it to no one.  Not even me.  I'll come fetch you at daybreak.’  She nodded, accepting a trencher with roast chicken and vegetables from a maid.  

 

‘’Ere now.  You lot wi’ Lor’ Bolton?’  The man nodded to the sigil on Steelshanks’ chest.  

 

‘Aye.’  Steelshanks picked up his ale.  

 

‘Was you up at th’ Twins fer th’ weddin?’

 

‘What wedding?’  Steelshankes sounded bored.  

 

‘Edmure Tully an’ Roslin Frey.  Lor’ Bolton was there.’  The man gulped his ale.  ‘They be callin’ it th’ Red Weddin’.’

 

Jaime leaned forward.  ‘That’s an odd name for a wedding,’ he commented.

 

The man snickered.  ‘No’ when th’ great hall is painted wi’ the blood of th’ Starks.’

 

Jaime’s hand dropped and landed on Brienne’s knee, then squeezed it tightly.  ‘What happened?’ he asked, dread filling his chest.  

 

‘Durin’ the feast, tha’ shrivelled cunt Walder Frey stops th’ music.’  The man elbowed one of his companions.  ‘Wha’ was they playin’?’

 

‘Rains o’ Castamere,’ the other man said around a mouthful of chicken.  

 

‘Righ’.  Rains o’ Castamere.  Funny song at a weddin’ wi’ no Lannisters,’ the first man mused.  ‘Anyway, ol’ Frey stops th’ music an’ says he ain’t given th’ Stark boy a weddin’ present.  And then it starts…’

 

Brienne’s hand closed around Jaime’s wrist in a vise-like grip, cold fingers digging into his skin.  

 

‘Frey’s men fell on th’ Starks.  Went after tha’ foreign bitch the Young Wolf married first.  Stabbed the bastard in her belly.’

 

Brienne could hardly hear over the roaring in her ears.  

 

‘Your Lor’ Bolton put a dagger in Stark’s heart,’ the second man said.

 

‘An’ Lady Stark got a red smile,’ the first man interjected, drawing a finger across this throat.  ‘An ol Frey sat at his table, watchin’ the slaughter wi’ a smile on his face, drinkin’ wine like it was a tourney.’

 

‘An’ this was after they’d eaten Frey’s bread an’ salt.’  The second man’s expression turned thoughtful.  ‘Guest righ’ don’ mean much, I guess.’

 

Brienne stood abruptly.  ‘Need to piss,’ she mumbled, and fled from the inn, nearly knocking over a serving wench as she did so.

 

Jaime pushed his trencher aside, no longer hungry.  The instant the men had mentioned “The Rains of Castamere,” the cold dread shaped into a single thought: _Tywin Lannister._   His father would do anything to protect his House, his family.  This had Tywin’s fingerprints all over it.  Him behind the scenes, pulling at the puppet strings, while the Freys took the credit.  Or more likely the blame.  Either way, no one would ever align themselves with House Frey again.  Tywin had neutralized the Starks at very little cost to himself.

 

‘Got all their men outside, too,’ the first man was saying to Steelshanks.  ‘’Nother funny thing.  ‘Eard Lor’ Bolton goes up to Robb Stark, tells ‘em, “Th’ Lannisters sen’ their regards.”  Then stabs ‘im righ’ through the heart.’

 

‘Is that so?’  Steelshanks stared into his ale.  

 

The second man shrugged.  ‘It’s wha’ they say.’

 

‘Excuse me,’ Jaime murmured.  He felt queasy and took a few deep breaths to quell the nausea.  A quip meant as a jest had been used to murder someone in cold blood.  He could never do what his father did, and conspire to murder his enemies in that way.  He still felt spasms of guilt for murdering Alston Lannister and the Karstark boy.  He left the inn and went into the yard, wondering if Brienne had left.  He wouldn’t put it past her to mount her horse, and head for the Twins at a full gallop in order to seek revenge against Walder Frey for murdering Catelyn Stark, armed with nothing save her sense of righteous fury.  He knew what she could do with swords, and could well imagine she’d squeeze Frey’s head off his neck with one hand.  He walked slowly down their line of horses, giving each a pat on the neck as he passed.  Hers was still there, enjoying a vigorous rubdown by a small stable lad.  Jaime nodded to the lad, then stood in the yard, gazing at the surrounding countryside.  She was a fast walker.  Brienne could be anywhere.  

 

Jaime could hear leaves rustling just inside the woods behind the inn.  He absently licked his index finger and held it up.  There was very little wind, and the leaves rustled at too-regular intervals.  He followed the sounds and found Brienne standing in front of a young, but stout linden tree.  One fist flew out and smacked against the tree trunk, followed by the other.  Her knuckles were already raw and bleeding.  Jaime blinked as she struck the tree again, harder than before.  He strode forward, wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her away.  ‘Stop that,’ he ordered.  ‘You’ll damage your hands, and take from me, that’s not something you want to experience.’

 

Brienne stared at him, open-mouthed, then crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her knees.  She let out a low moan, and her head bent forward, so she curled into a ball of abject misery.  The sobs she’d suppressed forced their way out of her throat.  

 

Jaime lowered himself to sit next to her.  She rocked back and forth, shoulders convulsing with the effort to not cry out.  It was little wonder she mourned so.  Catelyn Stark had never treated Brienne with anything other than respect and courtesy that Jaime had seen.  Something Brienne had been given too little of in her life.  

 

He tentatively placed his hand between her shoulders and, driven by an urge he didn’t want to question, began rubbing slow circles on her back.

 

Night had fallen before Brienne lifted her head.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and nearly swollen to slits.  Her face was blotchy and nose raw and red.  She’d had to part her lips in order to breathe.  He’d never seen weeping such as this.  Women at the court had perfected the art of it, so that when they did cry, a single tear clung to their lashes, then slid down the plane of their cheek.  Jaime took a worn swatch of linen and the water skin from his belt, laid the linen over his knee and soaked it with water, then pressed it into her unresisting hand.  She carelessly swiped it over her face, removing the worst of the tearstains and snot, then shoved it back into Jaime’s hand.  He poured more water over it, and without thinking, pulled his stump from the sling and slid it under one of Brienne’s hands.  Jaime began to dab gently at the crusted blood on her knuckles and between her fingers, pausing to rinse the linen every so often.  She sat numbly, shuddering every so often while tears trickled unheeded down her cheeks.  

 

‘It was wrong,’ Jaime told her, head bent over her other hand.  _My father was wrong to do it._ Her hands as clean as water could make them, he got a shoulder under her arm and hoisted Brienne to her feet, then propelled her back to the innyard.  He deposited her on a boulder, then disappeared into the inn and returned several minutes later with two steaming clay mugs balanced on a plate.  ‘My lady.’  He offered her one of the mugs and Brienne listlessly took it, frowning.  ‘What is it?’ she asked suspiciously, her voice husky.

 

‘Camomile tea.’  Jaime sniffed the liquid.  ‘With a generous amount of honey.’  He took a sip and set the mug down.  ‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly.

 

Brienne blew out a shaky breath and nodded mutely. 

 

 


	6. Just Beyond Reach

The sun glinted off the stream, nearly blinding Jaime while he refilled his and Brienne’s waterskins.  They were close to King’s Landing and would arrive there within a few days.  Jaime reckoned he ought to have felt more joy at the thought, after an absence of more than two years.  In truth, a part of him wished they never returned.  He wasn’t the Jaime Lannister that had galloped off to battle Robb Stark, and yet everyone in King’s Landing would expect him to be.  He stoppered Brienne’s waterskin and looped the straps over the crook of his elbow and joined Brienne under the shade of a birch tree.  She handed him a small loaf of bread, still warm from the oven and a chunk of cheese.  ‘Could you…?’  He held out the bread and she wordlessly tore it into smaller pieces.  The cheese was crumbly, and Jaime managed to break off a chunk.  ‘Do you remember your mother at all?’

 

Brienne shook her head.  ‘Not really.  I was very young when she died.’  She tore her loaf of bread in half.   ‘My father told me I have her eyes,’ she mused.  Her mother was a shadow to Brienne.  She’d been ill most of Brienne’s young life.  From what little her father had said, her mother’s last two pregnancies had been quite difficult.  Brienne had vague memories of soft singing and even softer hands cupping her face, wreathing her with the scent of violets.  

 

‘How old were you?’

 

Brienne shook herself and took a bite of her bread, chewing it slowly.  ‘Four,’ she said once she’d swallowed.  

 

Jaime pushed his hair from his face.  ‘So was I.’  He examined the cheese.  ‘Died giving birth to Tyrion.’  He took a bite of the cheese.  He didn’t remember Joanna Lannister very well, despite Cersei’s insistence that she certainly did.  He wondered if Cersei actually did remember their mother or if she merely parroted what she had been told by others.  All he could recall with any certainty was a lilting melody, while a hand stroked his hair and the scent of lilacs on the folds of her dress.  ‘Everyone always despised Tyrion for it.’

 

‘And you?’

 

Jaime looked up, a look of aggrievement on his face.  ‘Never.  Not once.  Not ever,’ he said emphatically.  He looked down at the cheese in his hand.  ‘He was only a baby.’  He took another bite of the cheese.  ‘Do you think your mother’s proud of you?’

 

Brienne gave him a narrow-eyed glare.  ‘What do you think?’ she scoffed.  

 

Jaime picked up his waterskin.  ‘What’s not to be proud of?  You’re brave.  Courageous.’  He took a sip of water.  ‘Loyal to a fault.’  He held it out to Brienne.  ‘No mocking,’ he added at her understandably suspicious face.

 

‘What about yours?’  Brienne took the proffered waterskin and tilted it over her mouth.

 

‘What mother wouldn’t want the man known as the Kingslayer for a son?’ Jaime said in a deprecating voice.

 

Brienne gave the waterskin back to Jaime.  ‘You are more than that.’

 

‘I was.’  Jaime managed to replace the stopper without spilling water.  ‘I’m not quite sure who I am now.’  He looked up and noticed the Bolton men mounting their horses.  ‘Back in the saddle.’

 

Brienne dusted the crumbs from her hands and retrieved her waterskin from the grass, then offered a hand to Jaime.  He took it and allowed her to haul him to his feet.  

 

 


	7. In the Shadow of the White Tower

Brienne sat on the sill of the large window of her chamber, her back braced against the side of the frame, knees pulled to her chest.  She was as close as one could get to the White Tower without actually being inside it. The tower walls loomed outside her window. She could watch the Kingsguard spar with one another in the mornings.  She would have dearly loved to join them, but her own armor and swords had been confiscated by Bolton’s men. She mourned their loss. They had been her father’s parting gift and blessing to her when he’d sent to her Renly.  The armor had been a bit fanciful for her taste, but it was well-made, as were the swords. Most mornings, she wielded an imaginary sword and sparred with her own shadow. It wasn’t quite the same, but it would do for now. She mustn’t let her skills grow rusty with disuse.  

 

Staying in the Red Keep was rather unsettling, to say the least.  Men wearing the colors of House Lannister stood guard outside her chamber door on Jaime’s orders.  Not to keep her in, but to keep someone out. Who, Jaime wouldn’t say. It grated on her nerves.  

 

A page had carried in several bundles from a tailor’s shop, nearly staggering under the weight.  Someone had gone to the trouble to provide her with everything from smallclothes to a tunic of blue wool so long, the hem fell several inches below her knees.  Whoever it was even had her House sigil embroidered on it. There had been no note, and Brienne had thoroughly searched the wrappings and the clothing. It was someone who knew her well.  Trousers, tunics, a leather jerkin. Nary a dress or skirt in sight. Mostly in a serviceable brown, but like the long tunic, there were touches of blue. The hue of the sleeveless linen tunic and pants she wore in preparation for sleep reminded her of the waters off the coast of Tarth.  

 

Brienne angled her head just enough to look up at the night sky.  It was hazy with the smoke of thousands of fires in King’s Landing.  She wanted to leave the city. Preferably with Sansa in tow.

 

Jaime nodded to the Lannister guard and knocked on Brienne’s chamber door.  He was tired. He felt off-balance with the damned golden hand. He was hungry.  No one seemed to realize he was unable to simultaneously use a knife and fork. Meals with the Bolton men had usually been porridge or stew, which he could manage. The times when it had been some sort of roasted meat or sausages, Brienne had merely taken his plate or trencher, and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, then gave it back, without comment.  

 

The bolt slid back and the door opened.  Brienne peered through a crack, then opened it wider and stepped back.  He slipped through the opening and turned when he heard the door close. Jaime took in Brienne’s dress -- or rather, lack of it -- and held up his hand in apology.  ‘I’ve disturbed your rest. I’ll go.’

 

‘You’ve disturbed nothing.’  Brienne resumed her seat in the window.  

 

Jaime gestured to the bowl of fruit on the table near the fireplace.  ‘May I?’

 

‘Of course.’  

 

His hand hovered over the orange nestled in the bowl.  He loved oranges. They had been a special treat when he was a boy, especially on his name day.  He’d tried peeling one a few days before, but it had been beyond his meagre abilities, so bypassed it in favor of an apple.  He dropped into the chair, his spine balanced on the edge of the seat, and took a large bite. Jaime wiped the juice from his chin with the back of his hand.  ‘You should always wear blue,’ he commented off-handedly. ‘It suits you.’ He took another bite. ‘Does it all fit properly?’

 

It had been said so casually that it took Brienne a moment to realize who her mysterious benefactor was.  ‘You’re responsible for the clothes.’ She rose and went to the small cupboard that held them, and said, ‘I cannot accept it.  I can’t repay you…’ she said stiffly.

 

‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ Jaime responded testily.  ‘It’s less than you deserve. Take it as my thanks for returning me home safely.’  He took another bite. ‘I probably would have died if not for you,’ he admitted. He owed her far more than just a few sets of clothes.  A warrior needed armor and a sword, after all.  

 

Brienne’s hands clenched behind her back.  ‘Thank you.’ She retreated to the window and perched on the edge of the sill.  She indicated the golden hand. ‘Wouldn’t a hook be more useful?’

 

‘I wasn’t consulted.’

 

Brienne snorted.  ‘You can say no.’

 

Jaime finished the apple and threw the core into the fire.  ‘I didn’t want to start another fight,’ he mumbled, then got to his feet.  ‘I’ll leave you to your bed.’ He formally bowed. ‘Lady Brienne.’

 

‘Ser Jaime.’

  
  



	8. Armor

‘I need the name of a good armorer,’ Jaime mused.  ‘Preferably a discreet one.’

 

Tyrion carefully set his ever-present winecup down.  ‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You have armor.  Lannister and Kingsguard.’

 

Jaime fiddled with one of the leather laces of his golden hand.  ‘Someone of my acquaintance had theirs confiscated, partially due to my actions.  I should like to replace it.’ He took a slow sip of the wine Tyrion had poured for him.  ‘A Lannister always pays their debts,’ he murmured, almost to himself.

 

‘Tobho Mott.  You’ll pay more, but the work is impeccable.’  Tyrion gave his brother a thoughtful look. ‘I can send Podrick to bring him here.’

 

Jaime shook his head.  ‘I’ll go to him myself.’  He toyed with a grape. ‘I’d rather not arouse more suspicions than I have to.’

 

Tyrion leaned back, his fingers steepled together.  ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain extraordinarily tall, blonde haired, blue-eyed…’  He paused, searching for a word. ‘Would one call her a lady? -- woman, then, that came to King’s Landing with you?  The one who longingly observes the Kingsguard or gold cloaks sparring? Watching every move and finding fault with most of it?’

 

Jaime rolled the grape under his index finger.  ‘She is Selwyn Tarth’s daughter. He’s the lord of Evenfall Hall.  So yes, she is Lady Brienne.’ He met Tyrion’s incredulous gaze with a level one of his own.  ‘I won’t have you mocking her.’

 

‘I see.’  Tyrion drained his winecup, then refilled it.  ‘Interesting choice, I must say.’

 

Jaime scowled and threw the grape at Tyrion, intending to hit him right between the eyes, like he used to, but the angle was all wrong with his left hand.  It missed and sailed harmlessly over Tyrion’s head. ‘It’s not like that.’ He plucked another grape from the cluster on his plate. ‘I was her captive.’

 

‘Must not have been very good as a guard,’ Tyrion commented lightly.  ‘Considering you came back minus a hand.’

 

The expression on Jaime’s face hardened.  ‘Her life was worth more than my hand.’ _And so is her honor._

 

Tyrion gave his brother another appraising look.  ‘She won’t be able to stay in King’s Landing.’ He took a long sip of his wine.  ‘Our father abhors divided loyalty.’

 

Jaime picked up his winecup and held it to the sunlight streaming into Tyrion’s chambers.  A lovely Dornish red, the light creating crimson sparks. He gulped half the wine in the cup.  ‘Considering how our father no longer considers me his son, does it really matter?’ He set the cup down with a _thump_.  

 

‘You know he will again,’ Tyrion muttered sardonically.  

 

‘I know.’  Jaime pushed his chair back and left the room without another word.  

 

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Brienne closed her eyes, then opened them again, hoping the message from her father had changed.  She’d written a brief message to him when they’d first arrived in King’s Landing to inform him she was well and relatively unharmed.  Her virtue unbesmirched. She doubted Selwyn was overly concerned about her virginity, considering she was closer to thirty than twenty, and unlikely to marry anyone.  She glanced down at the parchment in her hand. Selwyn wrote in firm, bold strokes, and the words stood out in stark relief on the parchment.  

 

He ordered her to attend King Joffery’s wedding, as a representative of Evenfall and House Tarth.  

 

She’d always hated social functions.  Moreso since the disastrous ball her father had insisted she attend.  She might be the heir to Evenfall and Tarth, but it wasn’t enough to entice men to overlook her size.  Or looks. Or her awkwardness in any social situation. Brienne did not have the gift of chatting easily with the person seated next to her at a dinner.  She always took too long to weigh what she was going to say. Septa Roelle had ridiculed her attempts at conversation often and at great length, even going to far as to cruelly mock Brienne.  It didn’t compel Brienne to improve, rather it exacerbated her natural shyness to the point where if she wasn’t making some sort of proclamation or exchanging the most banal of responses, she rarely engaged in conversation, much less initiated it.  It served as armor.

 

Weddings among strangers were one of her worst nightmares.  She heartily wished Selwyn would sail across the Straits of Tarth and come to the blasted event.  At least she wouldn’t be alone, watching a spoiled, spiteful twat like Joffery Baratheon marry someone as kind as Margaery Tyrell.  Furthermore, she wouldn’t have to be the one to approach the king and his new queen and offer felicitations on behalf of Tarth.  

 

A shadow fell over her.  ‘Lady Brienne,’ Jaime murmured.  

 

‘Ser Jaime,’ she automatically replied.  

 

‘May I?’  He indicated the place next to her on the wall.  

 

‘Of course.’

 

Jaime nodded toward the parchment she still clutched in her hand.  ‘News of home?’ he asked, noting the Tarth sigil stamped next to Selwyn’s signature.  

 

‘Marching orders,’ Brienne told him glumly.  ‘I’m to attend the wedding in his place.’

 

‘You don’t wish to attend?’

 

Brienne’s lips pressed together.  ‘Do I look as if I enjoy social gatherings?’

 

‘I’d rather not go myself,’ Jaime admitted, staring out over Blackwater Bay.  People tended to stare openly at him, especially when he wore the hand. And he wore it far too often for his comfort, but Cersei had insisted.  ‘But you know… Kingsguard.’

 

‘And we have both been brought up to do our duty.’

 

‘Neither one of us are very good at it,’ Jaime said pointedly.  ‘You’re supposed to marry and produce heirs for Evenfall Hall, and I was to do the same for Casterly Rock.’

 

Brienne didn’t smile.  She rarely did, but her face brightened just a little.  ‘It seems we’re both failures, then.’

 

Jaime grinned, then stood and bowed formally.  ‘I bid you good day, Lady Brienne.’

 

‘Good day, Ser Jaime.’

  
  



	9. Slings and Arrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Cersei’s dialogue is from season 4, episode 2: The Lion and the Rose.

Brienne stepped away from the high dais with an internal sigh of relief.  Duty done on behalf of her father, she could leave the bloody wedding feast and retreat to her chamber.  Away from the crowds and the aroma of rich food and wine that was starting to make her feel sick. She caught a flutter of rose and gold from the corner of her eye.  Cersei trying to intercept her from the side. A common maneuver. But she moved too quickly for it to work as a surprise. ‘Lady Brienne,’ Cersei called. ‘You’re Lord Selwyn’s Tarth’s daughter. That makes you a lady, whether you want to be or not.’  Brienne noted the slight flicker of Cersei’s eyes as they took in her garb. The long tunic’s high neck and fitted sleeves resembled a man’s doublet more than a lady’s gown. Brienne didn’t miss the not-so-gentle jibe at her bow, mannish dress, and cropped hair.  She plastered a small, cordial smile to her lips. _Keep it short and polite.  You can’t possibly joust with her using words._   There was nothing but truth in what she said, so Brienne managed to reply with far more grace than she usually managed.  ‘As you say, Your Grace.’ 

 

‘I owe you my gratitude.  You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing,’ Cersei added with a hint of graciousness, gazing at Jaime.

 

Brienne glanced over her shoulder and couldn’t help the faint blush that stole over her cheeks, nor the soft fleeting smile that curved her lips   ‘In truth, he rescued me, Your Grace. More than once.’ The circumstances had not been particularly pleasant, but her relationship with Jaime had changed from mutual antagonism to respect. 

 

Cersei’s features stilled.  ‘Did he?’ she asked in a brittle tone.  ‘ I haven’t heard that story before.’

 

‘Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid.’  Brienne refused to say more than that. Memories of sapphires, baths, and bear pits were hers to keep.

 

‘I’m sure you have many fascinating stories.  Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark.  And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next.  Serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.’

 

‘I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.’  Brienne’s hands clenched into fists behind her back, short nails biting into her palms.  That barb almost hit its intended mark. Making remarks on her appearance was far too easy. People had done it all her life. Questioning her loyalty was insulting. 

 

‘But you love him.’  

 

Cersei threw it at Brienne so casually it stunned her into silence. ‘Your Grace…’  She turned, a cold finger of dread trailing down her spine as sure as a lover’s caress.  Jaime stood on the other side of the garden, staring at them, something akin to fear in his eyes. Brienne walked with a steady pace through the garden and managed to stroll casually away from the feast and back through the castle grounds, nearly running by the time she arrived at her chamber.  She flung the door open, then slammed it shut, shooting the bolt home, annoyed at how her hands shook. It was then that Brienne realized who Jaime meant to keep out of her chamber. His sister weaponized words the way Brienne swung a sword. Silences were shaped into razor sharp daggers. Every gesture, glance, or gasp was probed for what Cersei could use against the other person.  

 

Cersei had clearly resented the mere idea that Jaime had chosen to not tell his sister everything that had occured between Riverrun, Harrenhal, and King’s Landing.  Even to Brienne’s naive eyes. It was almost laughable that Cersei should be jealous of her, and yet, Brienne couldn’t shake the feeling that she was.   

 

Brienne fumbled with the laces at the back of the tunic, pulling them loose enough to yank the garment over her head.  _Of course I don’t love Jaime_ , she scoffed.  The very idea was preposterous.  Love was not for the likes of Brienne the Beauty, the Maid of Tarth. 

 

As a girl, Brinne had in fact dreamt of falling in love with a gallant prince.  She supposed many little girls did. Even when she’d grown taller than most of the boys on Tarth, she harbored foolish dreams of meeting a knight who saw her as beautiful.  Those dreams were always dashed when she looked in a glass. Love only existed in the storybooks from her childhood, where handsome knights who looked like Renly Baratheon or Loras Tyrell rescued fair maidens who had the smooth rose petal skin of Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark.  Great clumsy cows like the Maid of Tarth did not fall in love such persons as Ser Jaime Lannister. He was much prettier than she, for one. The missing hand and scars on his face from their captivity with the Bolton men had done nothing to diminish his beauty. He was more graceful.  More articulate. More everything. He’d never fully explained why he’d returned to Harrenhal for her.  

 

In truth, she didn’t want to know.  


* * *

  
Jaime’s slipped from the White Sword Tower and into Maegor’s Holdfast.  It was very late. Far closer to dawn than midnight. If he bothered, he could look to Visenya’s Hill and see the Great Sept glowing in the night.  The castle was quiet, holding its breath, speculating if the next king would be as disastrous as the last ‘King Tommen, first of his name,’ Jaime murmured.  ‘Long may he reign.’  

 

He had no destination in mind and wandered the corridors until he came to the one that led to Brienne’s chamber.  The guards stood silent sentinel, their scarlet cloaks bled of all color in the darkness. They were his men, handpicked for their loyalty to him.  _I won’t let anyone else hurt you,_ he’d vowed.  He suspected he'd failed in that regard as well, although Brienne would never say otherwise.

 

There was a faint line of light under Brienne’s door.  He wondered if she slept or was plagued by wakefulness.  He would bet his golden hand she slept the sleep of the righteous.  What sins rested heavy on her conscience? Failing to protect Renly? She ought to let that one rest easy.  How was one supposed to fight against blood magic? He would be the first to admit her story sounded false, but he’d come to learn Brienne was incapable of guile.

 

Jaime leaned against the wall, debating with himself.  If he knocked, she would answer, regardless of the hour.  She had in the past, hair tousled, rubbing sleep from her eyes, denying she’d been asleep.

 

What did he want of her this time?  Absolution? There was no absolution for men like him.  He’d once claimed there were no other men like him, but he was no better than the men that had captured him and Brienne.  What sort of man raped his incestuous lover in a sept, under the watchful eyes of the Seven? What did that make him, considering he’d fought to prevent Brienne from being raped, and yet he’d forced himself on Cersei. _If she’s a hateful woman, what does that make me?_

 

He pushed himself off the wall, and returned to the White Sword Tower, full of self-loathing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry... this one got a little darker than I had intended.


	10. Motives

She awoke with a start, squinting into the darkness.  Someone knocked on her chamber door, soft, yet insistent.  Brienne pushed her hair from her eyes and sat up, the dream of Tarth fading to a whisper in the back of her mind.  She opened the door to find Jaime standing on the other side, dressed not in his customary Kingsguard uniform, but in a reddish-brown leather doublet and dark roughspun trousers.  The end of the right sleeve of his doublet was empty. ‘I woke you.’ He ducked his head in apology. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No.’  She stepped back and invited him into the chamber with a wave of her hand. 

Jaime closed the door behind him.  Brienne was dressed in a pair of loose trousers and a shirt, feet bare.  He glanced at the bed. It was rumpled, the bedding thrown back. ‘I did wake you.’

‘I wasn’t sleeping,’ Brienne lied, lighting a taper from one of the candles on the corner of the room and used it to light more.   ‘You look tired.’

‘Haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘Featherbeds are too comfortable for you now, hmmm?’ Brienne murmured.  ‘You got used to sleeping outdoors. Perhaps you should try bedding down in the godswood.’  Jaime’s stomach rumbled loudly in the quiet room. ‘When was the last time you ate something?’

‘This morning,’ Jaime admitted sheepishly.  ‘With the funeral, there wasn’t much time to stop and eat.’  He paced around the small chamber. ‘And another king dies on my watch.  Killed by my own brother, no less.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. 

‘Do you really think Tyrion was the only one with a motive?’  Brienne gestured to the small table and sat in one of the chairs next to it, then grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl.  ‘You’ve seen how he treated people. Everyone at the feast had a motive to kill Joffery,’ Brienne said in a low voice, head bent over the apple while she concentrated on removing the skin in a single spiral.  

‘Except me,’ Jaime protested.  ‘And Cersei.’ He paused, then added, ‘And my father.’

Brienne shook the apple peeling off the knife and began to cut the apple into half, then half again, depositing the fruit on a plate.  ‘Your father… Because Tommen is a biddable child and more easily controlled. And much less likely to plunge the country into outright revolt.  Cersei… she couldn’t control him, either. And he made her look like a weak, helpless woman. Sullied her image.’ She plucked an orange from the bowl and dug her short nails into the rind.  The times Jaime had come to her chamber, she’d noticed how he’d hesitate over the orange and pass over it. ‘Appearances mean a great deal to the Lannisters.’

Jamie stared at Brienne as if he’d never seen her before.  ‘Have you been talking to Tyrion?’

‘No.  Before I came to the mainland, it was one of the things my father told me about your family.’  She set orange rind aside and broke the fruit into sections. ‘Nobody seems to mourn King Joffery, though.  The only person who seems put out at all is his mother.’ She shrugged. ‘People talk, and I’ve listened. I haven’t had much else to do since we arrived,’ she sighed.   

‘So that leaves me.’  He picked up one of the apple slices and tossed it into his mouth, crunching smugly, arms crossed over his chest.  He eschewed the chair opposite Brienne and perched on the edge of the table.

‘If he hadn’t foolishly executed Ned Stark, then Robb Stark wouldn’t have started a war to avenge his father’s death.  If there was no war between the Starks and the Lannisters, you would never have been captured by them. We would have never met, and you would not have lost your sword hand.  You would have been safe in King’s Landing for the past two years,’ she finished evenly. One brow rose. ‘What is it they say about your family? A Lannister always pays their debts?’

‘You’re saying I could have murdered by own… nephew in order to exact revenge for losing my hand?’  Brienne nodded. ‘That’s absurd! Where do you hear such tales?’

‘I’m a blundering cow,’ Brienne said dispassionately.  ‘Obviously, I’m far too simple to understand what’s being said in my hearing if I cannot understand I will never be allowed to be a soldier or a knight.’

‘And yourself? You said everyone had a motive,’ Jaime pointed out, taking an orange segment from the plate. 

‘Revenge,’ Brienne said simply. ‘For Arya and Sansa Stark.’  She nibbled at an apple slice. 

‘Mmmm.’  Jaime slid further back on the table, his feet swinging a few inches above the floor. ‘Poisoning isn’t your style.  Open combat is,’ he mused. ‘You would consider poisoning someone in secret to be dishonorable, because your intentions are unclear.’  He stared at Brienne’s face for a long moment. ‘And you are a prodigiously honorable person.’

‘Who had the most to gain?’ 

Jaime’s shoulders slumped. ‘You’re right. It could be anyone.’


	11. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei swung her feet to the floor and stood, draining the goblet. She crossed the room to the table and refilled her goblet. ‘Did you fuck her?’ she asked without preamble.
> 
> ‘What?’
> 
> ‘That great shambling beast of a woman you insisted on installing in a chamber in the Red Keep,’ Cersei added, as she lifted the goblet to her mouth. ‘Did you fuck her?’ she repeated.

_Low, rumbling growls came from behind him.  Jaime spun in the muddy field.  A pack of four direwolves crept slowly from the woods, moving on silent paws, hot breath steaming in the frigid air.  One with dark fur snapped its teeth mere inches away from his body.  Another, as white as the snowdrifts surrounding the woods, eyes glowing like rubies, hung back, lips curled from his fangs, staring warily at him.  Vicious snarls thrummed on his other side.  Jaime reached for his sword, the fingers of his right hand closing around the hilt.  He drew the Valyrian steel sword his father had given him, the blade singing with bright sweetness as it left its scabbard.  A large lion, contempt emanating from it, marched slowly across the clearing, followed closely by a lioness.  The lion stopped in front of Jaime and regarded him with icy disapproval.  He opened his jaws wide and roared, ruffling Jaime’s hair, the scent of blood heavy on his breath.  The sword dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.  He was going to die, trapped between his family and his oath.  ‘Get behind me.’  Brienne appeared next to him, her armor the brilliant deep blue of sapphires._

_‘I will not!’ Jaime rasped in indignation.  ‘I can fight.’_

_‘Can you?’  Brienne’s eyes were sympathetic as they flicked to his right hand.  It was bloodless and white and so cold that Jaime thought it might shatter if he touched it.  ‘Give me a sword, Ser Jaime.  I will protect you.’  The lioness bared her teeth at Brienne.  Jaime knelt and picked up his sword and pressed it into Brienne’s waiting hand with nary a second thought.  She took it without taking her gaze away from the lions.  Brienne stood in front of Jaime, and as she lifted the blade, flames as bright as the sunbursts on her sigil spiraled up the blade.  The wolves retreated, but the pale grey direwolf with amber eyes regarded the pair of them thoughtfully before bounding away into the woods._

_That left the lions._

_The male sat on his powerful haunches, while the female sprang at Brienne.  Brienne swung the sword, and it sliced through the lioness’ pelt, leaving crimson streaks on the golden fur…_

* * *

‘Ser Jaime?’  The squire stood at the foot of Jaime’s bed and cautiously shook one of Jaime’s feet.  He knew better than to stand next to Jaime and wake him.  Not after the first squire to do so after Jaime returned to King’s Landing ended up careening into the armor stand when the Lord Commander punched him with a flailing fist.  ‘Ser Jaime…?’

Jaime’s eyes flew open and he groggily sat up, the dream shredding into wisps of memory and mist.  ‘Is it the king?’ 

‘No, m’lord.  Her Grace would like to speak with you.’  The squire moved about the chamber lighting candles.  He collected the clothing laid out for the next morning and held out the smalls to Jaime, who snatched them from the squire’s hand and worked them over his legs.  Jaime had managed to master the art of tying his own laces on the journey from Harrenhal, albeit clumsily.  He was damned if he would let the bloody squire dress him like some sort of doll.  By the time the squire wound the burgundy scarf around Jaime’s neck, and helped him shrug into the leather doublet, Jaime was fully awake.  He gave the golden hand a look of pure loathing, but donned it nonetheless.  Cersei had made her feelings quite plain regarding the stump.  He didn’t dare appear in her presence without it.  Jaime finger-combed his hair while the squire moved to the armor stand, but Jaime waved him off.  ‘I don’t think it will be necessary.  It’s late.  Go to back to bed.’

The squire nodded, pausing to straighten the bedding on Jaime’s bed.  Once the boy had left, Jaime ran a fingertip over the bedpost.  It had been carved from a weirwood tree decades ago -- perhaps in the time of the first Aerys or Jaehaerys.  He’d heard tales that even weirwood stumps had mystical properties, but he’d never believed it.  His dreams had grown more and more vivid the longer he slept in the Lord Commander’s chamber.  Some felt so real, he had to spend more than a few moments upon waking to convince himself it had only been a dream.  His eyes lit on the Valyrian steel sword, sitting serenely on a stand, gleaming in dimly lit room.  The flickering candlelight shimmered on the edge, creating the illusion of flames dancing over the blade.  In his dream, he’d had both his hands, but the right one was useless.  He lightly touched the hilt, staring at the armor hidden under the swaths of one of his spare cloaks.  If he couldn’t wield the sword in a way that would honor it, perhaps Brienne could.  ‘No,’ he murmured.  ‘She _will._ ’  He shook himself from his reverie and walked out of the chamber.  

The night air was cool and redolent with the aroma of herbs and flowers over the more odiferous aspects of the city.  Jaime made his way to Cersei’s chamber and knocked perfunctorily, then opened the door.  ‘Your Grace,’ he said, with a just-barely correct bow.  Cersei sprawled elegantly over a chaise, the diaphanous fabric of her bedgown rippling in the breeze wafting through the window.  She held a goblet full of a rich, dark wine.   ‘We have installed a taster, who will test every morsel and drop intended for the king.  We’ve added Lannister guards to supplement the Kingsguard who guard the king’s bedchamber…’  Jaime strode to the carafe sitting on the table, intending to pour himself a cup.  He passed the mouth of the carafe under his nose, and his eyes widened.  _Dornish strongwine._   Jaime set the carafe down, and eyed the goblet in his sister’s hand.  She brought it to her mouth and took a swallow.  _How much has she had already?_ Jaime wondered with a growing sense of unease.  Dornish strongwine was supposed to be served in small glasses and savored, but Cersei drank as if it was a common Dornish red or the spiced honey wine served in Lannisport taverns and alehouses.  

Cersei swung her feet to the floor and stood, draining the goblet.  She crossed the room to the table and refilled her goblet.  ‘Did you fuck her?’ she asked without preamble.

‘What?’

‘That great shambling beast of a woman you insisted on installing in a chamber in the Red Keep,’ Cersei added, as she lifted the goblet to her mouth.  ‘Did you fuck her?’ she repeated.

Jaime forced himself to respond with a laugh, albeit a decidedly hollow one, while his blood ran cold.  ‘Of course not,’ he said.  ‘She’s called the Maid of Tarth for a reason,’ he told Cersei.  ‘There is nothing about her that could possibly entice me.’

Cersei set the goblet down hard, causing wine to slosh over the rim.  She pressed herself to Jaime.  ‘But you wanted to fuck her,’ she purred, hand curving over his hardening cock.  Jaime closed his eyes, grateful for once his cock seemed to have a mind of its own at times.  ‘Never,’ Jaime managed.  ‘It’s only been you.  It’s only ever been you,’ he said into her hair.

_Liar,_ his mind taunted.  It had been a long journey, and he had awakened more than one morning next to Brienne, nestled against her back, ostensibly for warmth, with vague images of her long legs wrapped around his hips, cock aching to be inside her.  Jaime had told himself it was the long absence from Cersei, that he wasn’t attracted to Brienne at all.  Brienne was only a friend. But dreams about Brienne had persisted, even back in King’s Landing, his bed in the Lord Commander’s apartment virtuously cold and empty.  He didn’t know what it was that he felt for Brienne beyond respect and admiration.  It wasn’t love.  He loved Cersei.  He was always willing to bend his will to hers, to do anything for her.  She always said it was because he loved her, and that’s what love was.  That because they shared a womb, there would never be anyone who could understand them as the other did.  

‘To whom does the armor belong that was delivered to the White Sword Tower?’ Cersei asked abruptly, her voice dripping with the honeyed tones of seduction.

Jaime stiffened, startled that Cersei knew about the armor.  ‘It’s Lady Brienne’s,’ he said off-handedly.  ‘Hers was taken from her when we were captured.’  He shrugged.  ‘A small recompense for delivering me safely home.  It would be rude to send her back to Tarth without a replacement.’

Cersei roughly pushed him away.  ‘That will be all, Lord Commander.’

Jaime stepped back and bowed.  ‘Your Grace.’  He left the chamber and all the breath left his lungs with an audible _whoosh._   He’d certainly dodged the headman’s axe.  He had to find a way for Brienne to leave the city without arousing suspicion.  


	12. Oathkeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime moved to stand in front of Brienne.  He dropped his gaze to the hilt of the sword on her hip.  He wasn’t ready to say farewell just yet, so he blurted, ‘They say the best swords have names.  Any ideas?’
> 
> Brienne contemplated the hilt under her hand, her thumb rubbing the pommel.  Despite the intended message in the design, not once had she looked at the sword and thought “Lannister.”  It was Jaime that sprang to mind. She’d fallen asleep the previous night, staring at the pommel. It whispered its name in her ear just as she tumbled over the edge into slumber.  She met his gaze. ‘Oathkeeper.’ She hoped he understood.

Jaime stood on one side of the table in the Lord Commander’s chamber, watching Brienne page through the White Book.  Her face brightened as she paused on Duncan the Tall’s page, a finger tracing the sigil at the top of the page. It reminded him of the time she’d been there as a small girl, just eight years old, bloodied and fierce from defending herself.  She turned several more pages until she came to his. ‘Ser Jaime Lannister, knighted and named to the Kingsguard in his 16th year; at the sack of King’s Landing murdered his king, Aerys II. Pardoned by Robert Baratheon,’ she read dispassionately, then glanced at Jaime, eyes full of reproach as if to comment on the brevity of his entry.  

‘It’s the duty of the Lord Commander to fill those pages,’ Jaime remarked, feeling the fingers of his missing right hand twitch, with an accompanying twinge of chagrin.  Even if he still had his dominant hand, writing was an exercise that left him sweaty and disheveled if he had to do more than a few sentences. He stared at the sword his father had given him, the peculiar dark grey steel gleaming on its stand.  It too stood as a mute rebuke to his lack of accomplishments. ‘And there’s still room left on mine.’ _And perhaps always will be,_ he thought.  The sword was a fine weapon, and belonged in the hands of one who might be worthy of using it.  Even though he had improved, he was never going to be the fighter he was. Jaime reached for the hilt and picked up the sword, then laid it against his right arm.  He gave the hilt a little toss, then caught one of the quillons, and offered the hilt to Brienne. It felt oddly intimate, as if he meant to present her with a piece of his soul.

Brienne took the sword, a fingertip under the tip to hold it to the light.  She examined it, tilting it so the light caught the characteristic swirls in the steel.  ‘Valyrian steel,’ she said appreciatively, her lips curving ever-so-slightly into a smile.

Jaime felt a thrum of satisfaction.  The blade looked as if it belonged in her hand.  Just as he knew it would. ‘Mmmm. It’s yours.’

Brienne’s eyes widened, and she didn’t try to hide the consternation on her face.  ‘I can’t accept this.’ Jaime understood why. Valyrian steel was nearly impossible to come by in Westeros.  Tywin had spared no expense in crafting the sword. The hilt and pommel were gilded with gold, with rubies set in the hilt, just under the quillons.  The pommel itself formed the snarling head of a lion, as did the quillons. This sword was clearly meant to be a Lannister family heirloom.

He had fully expected her to refuse the gift as soon as the thought had blossomed in his head a few days before, and already had an argument formed.  ‘It was reforged from Ned Stark's sword. You'll use it to defend Ned Stark's daughter.’ Brienne looked down at the sword. ‘You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother.  Lady Stark's dead. Arya's probably dead, too, but there's still a chance to find Sansa and get her somewhere safe.’ Brienne began to nod with the realization Jaime meant to send her on a quest to fulfill her oath.  _Our oath,_ Jaime reminded himself.  Cersei wouldn’t rest until Sansa’s head was on a spike outside her chamber window.  He couldn’t leave King’s Landing, although at this moment, he dearly wished he could.  So he would send Brienne. If anyone could find Sansa Stark, it was Brienne. She was certainly stubborn enough to move the heavens and the earth if necessary to fulfill their oath.  He looked over Brienne’s shoulder at the shrouded armor stand. ‘There’s something else for you.’ He paused in front of the stand, and reached up, then removed the cloak that hid the armor with a bit of a flourish.  Brienne crossed toward him, transfixed, mouth slightly open. He knew what she was thinking, before she could say it. _This is too much,_ she would say, undervaluing her worth as usual.  She laid a reverent hand on the dark blue spaulder.  He smiled to himself. The blue had been the right choice.  It reflected and deepened the blue of her eyes. _She does have astonishing eyes._   ‘I hope I got your measurements right,’ he murmured, hoping to lighten the mood with his customary deprecating humor.  In truth, he couldn't help but know that the measurements were, in fact, accurate. How many days had they ridden on the same horse, tied to one another?  How many nights had they slept huddled together far from the fire between Harrenhal and King’s Landing? He knew the dip of her waist and curve of her hip and the length of her arms and legs, roped with hard muscle, almost as surely as a lover knew the body of their beloved.  Seeing her next to the armor, he knew he’d made the right decision with the design, removing anything that hindered her movement, and streamlining the rest. Its simple, unadorned lines would suit her.

‘l’ll find her,’ she said, with all the weight of a holy vow.  ‘For Lady Catelyn.’ She paused, not quite looking at him, her eyes full of words she could not say.  ‘And for you.’

Jaime swallowed, already feeling the loss of her quiet presence.  ‘I almost forgot. I have one more gift.’

‘This is already too much,’ Brienne protested.  ‘I can’t accept anything else.’

‘Nonsense.’  Jaime clumsily bundled the cloak into his arms.  ‘You’ll need horses, provisions, money.’

‘Jaime…’

‘I’ll have the armor sent to your chamber before nightfall.  And in the morning, I’ll have a squire come and help you put it on.  You’ll meet me here, and I’ll walk you to the northern gate.’

Brienne trailed a fingertip over the armor, tracing the lines etched into it that called to mind the copper colored armor she wore when they first met.  ‘You said you had another gift?’

Jaime’s mouth quirked in a grin.  Brienne would leave at first light on her own if he sprang Podrick on her right now.  ‘It will keep until morning.’

* * *

Brienne’s eyes swiveled from Jaime to Podrick and back.  ‘I don’t need a squire,’ she insisted, throwing another look at the boy.  She hated surprises, and this was a rather unwelcome one. The boy -- Podrick -- smiled hopefully

‘Of course you do,’ Jaime persisted.  

Brienne took a moment to take the measure of Podrick.  Despite Jaime’s assertion that Podrick had served Tyrion as a squire, Brienne could tell the boy would sooner castrate himself than disable an opponent in battle.  She would have bet the three hundred gold dragons her father had offered to ransom her that Podrick would have saddle sores by the time they stopped for the evening.  ‘He’ll slow me down,’ she stated.

Jaime sighed inwardly.  He knew she was right, but it was imperative to whisk Podrick out of the city quickly and unobtrusively as possible.  He lowered his voice. ‘My brother owes me a debt. He’s not safe here. You’ll be keeping him from harm. It’s chivalry.’  Brienne just barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Jaime knew exactly what to say to her to elicit the desired response. She silently damned him to the seven hells for knowing her so well.

‘I won’t slow you down, Ser!’  Podrick stilled, a horrified look on his face at the mistake.  Brienne shot Jaime an aggravated look. ‘Mmmmm’lady,’ he corrected, looking so much like a puppy that had left a puddle in the middle of the floor.  ‘I promise I’ll serve you well.’

‘See?  He’s a good lad,’ Jaime wheedled.  ‘You’ll get along.’

Bronn stepped forward and held up an axe, breaking the tension.  ‘Compliments of Lord Tyrion.’ He shoved the axe into Podrick’s chest.   ‘His axe from the Blackwater.’ Podrick gazed at it in awe and wonder. ‘What are you waiting for? A kiss?’ Bronn groused.  ‘Ready the lady’s horse.’ Podrick scampered to stow the axe in his pack, and Bronn, for once in his life, Jaime reckoned, tactfully stepped aside.  

Jaime moved to stand in front of Brienne.  He dropped his gaze to the hilt of the sword on her hip.  He wasn’t ready to say farewell just yet, so he blurted, ‘They say the best swords have names.  Any ideas?’

Brienne contemplated the hilt under her hand, her thumb rubbing the pommel.  Despite the intended message in the design, not once had she looked at the sword and thought “Lannister.”  It was Jaime that sprang to mind. She’d fallen asleep the previous night, staring at the pommel. It whispered its name in her ear just as she tumbled over the edge into slumber.  She met his gaze. ‘Oathkeeper.’ She hoped he understood.

Jaime felt the same candle-bright glow he’d felt when she called him “Ser Jaime” the first time.  He was no longer an oath breaker. Not in her eyes. In a rare moment where he allowed himself to be completely honest with himself, Jaime realized the only opinion that mattered to him at all was Brienne’s.  But now she had to go. The day was slipping away, and he wanted both her and Podrick away from his sister’s grasp. ‘Goodbye, Brienne.’

Brienne’s chin trembled.  She knew if she tried to speak it would come out as a formless croak, so she said nothing.  Brienne moved abruptly to the side and strode to her horse, her back straight and head high.  She mounted the horse with Podrick’s assistance, and then began to ride away.  

Jaime turned as Brienne passed him, watching her walk out of his life.  He was having difficulty breathing. Aside from Tyrion, she was his best friend.  He couldn’t recall when it had happened. One day they were antagonists on a battle field, then they weren’t.  Jaime followed them for a few paces, then stopped, watching until they were little more than specks on the horizon.  It took everything he had to not shout at them to wait while he packed his things and saddled his horse.  

Brienne twisted on the back of the horse, and looked back.  She held Jaime’s gaze feeling the emotions crowd her throat.  She whipped around to face forward, steeling herself for the possibility that this would be the last time she would ever lay eyes on Jaime Lannister.  Later, she promised herself, when she was certain Podrick slept, she would mourn the loss of the only real friend she ever had.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue comes from Episode s04 e04: Oathkeeper.
> 
> I had intended to end it here, but (isn't there always a but?) I wanted to take the theme full circle and include the scenes at Riverrun, the Dragonpit, and Jaime's trial at Winterfell.


End file.
